


Métro Conversations & International Nudity

by cresscaptain



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Actress!Sansa, Awkward, Exchange/Abroad, F/M, French!Jon, Friends to Lovers, I Don't Even Know, Insecurities, Nerd!Jon, Slow Burn, Swearing, characters will be added as i go along, cute and fluffy, the métro ships it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2018-12-12 10:03:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11734764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cresscaptain/pseuds/cresscaptain
Summary: While studying abroad in France, Game of Thrones actress Sansa Stark encounters a nerd on the métro who somehow doesn’t recognize her. It just so happens that Sansa is a coward because she just can’t seem to tell the cute Jon Snow that she’s been naked on international television.





	1. Sous votre Pull

It happened on a rainy autumn day.

She took the métro home every day, two stations that she stood leaning against the door, thinking about nothing and everything, waiting for her stop on the métro plan to start blinking, signalizing that they were nearly there. It had gotten a lot colder over time, and she had taken to wearing thicker jackets.

Today, when she left the building to walk to the nearby métro station, it had gone from slightly sunny to raining within seconds and in her haste to close the jacket, she had ripped it, meaning that she had to hold it instead of having free hands.

Getting through the ticket control was a struggle in itself, and then she learned that the métro was late due to complications, and her good mood was gone, especially after it got even colder.

Finally, it arrived and after she believed to finally be on her way home, the métro stopped in the middle of the tracks. She groaned.

This did happen sometimes, when the tracks either needed to be checked up or, the more likely event, that another métro was really close to this one and they needed to wait until there was a safe distance between them.

Today was really not her day.

She sighed, which caused her backpack that was loosely swung over one shoulder to slip. In order to catch it, she had to let go of her jacket and a rush of cold air greeted her. Quickly, she tossed the backpack back over her shoulder and wrapped her jacket around herself again.

Out of habit, she glanced around at all the other passengers, but no one seemed to have noticed.

No one except one.

“Désolée, mais j’ai vu que vous avez un t-shirt de Harry Potter sous votre pull. Vous aimez bien les films ou les livres ou les deux?”

She froze up as she heard the voice behind her, and slowly turned. A boy maybe one or two years older than her stood there, smiling lopsidedly. He had black curls that stood up in every direction, pale skin and a soft beard growth on his cheeks. His nose was crooked ever so slightly, and although he was muscular, his figure was lanky. He was the exact opposite of the men she usually came in contact with, who generally were just chunks of pure muscles while he seemed to have every single one of his flaws displayed in his dark eyes, but he was wearing a hopeful and just genuinely nice expression and she couldn’t help but smile back.

It took her a minute to realize that he had asked a question, and another minute to think of an answer, which was even more delayed due to remaining struggles with the languages. In the end, she just blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“Quoi?”

Probably not the best way to go when you meet a cute boy.

He grinned back, unfazed. “English?” he asked, with a cute accent that lengthened the e-s more than necessary.

She nodded.

He smiled again, a full-on toothy grin and she felt her mouth quirk in response.

“I asked about your t-shirt,” he said, the accent coming to show again. From what she had known of French people and their English skills, this was impressive.

She looked down at her faded red zip-up hoodie, the zipper now hanging at a precarious angle. Beneath it, she knew, she was wearing a dementor-top.

She closed her eyes. Obviously, the one day a cute guy on the métro decided to talk to her, she had to wear a nerdy top. Not that she was ashamed, it was just that he didn’t seem to know her and in the rare moments that that happened, she’d rather not ruin it with giving herself away as a huge nerd without a life directly. Still, he had asked about it, so maybe he was a nerd as well. She risked a peek at his torso, but if he was wearing a nerdy t-shirt as well, it was obscured by the black jacket.

He smiled again at her inspection. “I’m Jon,” he said.

“Sansa,” she offered, praying that he didn’t make any sort of connection.

He grasped a hand she hadn’t outstretched and kissed it. Completely taken aback, she didn’t do anything but watch. He then looked up at her with a goofy grin, ruining his gentleman-ly actions.

“Nice to meet you,” he said.

She nodded dazedly. The métro came to a sudden halt and she bumped into him.

Real smooth, Sansa, she thought while mentally cringing. Real smooth. 

He righted her again with a quick movement. “Nice to meet you again, now that we’ve had full-on contact,” he said and then blushed. She laughed. At least now she wasn’t the only one cringing at herself.

He smiled at her again, his cheeks still red. “I really do love your t-shirt,” he said, his accent stronger with embarrassment.

“I love yours too,” she said by way of polite small talk, then clapped her hand over her mouth. She hadn’t even seen his shirt!

He laughed again, probably at her red head and unzipped his jacket. “Fair’s fair,” he said.

She immediately froze and stared in horror as he revealed a Stark motive t-shirt with the words The North Remembers printed next to it. So he did watch Game of Thrones.

Sorry, Sansa. No cute boy for you.

For her own good, she had put Game of Thrones watchers off limits for herself years ago. And even though she wanted to continue talking to him, flirting with him, so bad, she couldn’t go there.

“This is my stop,” she blurted out. “Sorry,” she added over her shoulders as she rushed out the closing doors. A couple of passengers gave her weird looks, but she was out and could see Jon’s confused (and slightly hurt) face for just a second before the métro rushed on. She was breathing heavily and was also very disappointed. She hadn’t dated in a while and he was so cute… and nice.

She heaved a deep sigh, then looked around and frowned for a completely different reason.

Where was the hell she? No matter. She’d just take the next métro.

She let out a groan as a voice from the loudspeakers announced a delay. Why did this day have to be so awful?


	2. se trouve un

She was leaning against the door’s window, watching the rain hit the window and running down it in streaks when he cleared his throat.

Nearly jumping out of her skin, she turned. Jon was standing on the stairs to the door, looking at her nervously with one hand ruffling his hair. It was pulled back into a bun, but her guess was that it wouldn’t stay there for long if he kept tearing at it.

His jacket hung open and a plain white shirt with a hole at the bottom greeted her.

She wanted to smile at him and the cuteness with which he blushed when she met his gaze, but she reminded herself why she had set him off limits just yesterday. Instead, she scowled her fiercest scowl at him in order to contradict that. She was sure even Khal Drogo would have cowered before her.

He visibly shrank back at her gaze, turning an even brighter red and she immediately felt bad, but there was no going back now.

“What do you want?” she asked, her voice matching her scowl. Deep and fierce, like she wanted it to sound.

And okay, even she had to admit that it sounded absolutely ridiculous even to her own ears. She, after all, wasn’t a terrifying grizzly just woken up from a good night (winter) sleep, but a girl who, while being tall, also had big eyes and a flushed look with her hair braided into pigtails. And, she glanced down at herself, was again wearing a Harry Potter shirt, this one with Luna Lovegood’s crazy glasses and the phrase, You’re just as sane as I am. Great.

He didn’t seem scared of her (it would have been a miracle and anyway, she wasn’t even sure if she’d wanted to have that effect on him), but he just looked even more sullen and unhappy than before.

With a jolt, she realized that he would make a great actor for teenage girls to rave about.

Or a handsome prince with a dark past that saves a young princess, but the princess must still save his heart.

By thinking of princesses and princes, she thought back to Game of Thrones and back to the reason why she really shouldn’t be talking to the would-be handsome brooding prince.

“I’m sorry, okay,” he blurted out so suddenly that she jerked into the bar in the middle of the exit space, where passengers could hold onto if there were no seats. He immediately looked even guiltier, and she also put him down (next to off limits) as the worst partner in crime to have. The interrogation would be a joke, even if they were innocent.

And just after thinking that she remembered the words he had so guiltily blurted out, like a confession.

“What?” she asked back stupidly. What on earth did he have to apologize for? She was the one who had bolted on him without even the slightest of explanations as of why exactly she had done it.

He ruffled his hair once more. “I – I really didn’t want to – to sound like a pervert. I swear, I don’t watch Game of Thrones for the boo–the breasts. Or the sex. I really don’t. I like the story, and I have read parts of the books, and there are no pictures of naked women in them. Please. I’m not a pervert.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed. He thought she’d bolted because she thought that he was a pervert? She wanted to laugh. What would he think of her, in that case, if he suspected Game of Thrones watchers to be perverts?

Actually, she didn’t want to think about it. She hated it when people looked at her and she saw the flash of recognition before their eyes traveled down to her breasts. The look they gave her when she politely asked them to stop was even worse. Like, what? I’ve seen them before.

It was part of the reason why she never, ever wore a t-shirt where a lot of cleavage was showing.

“I don’t think you’re a pervert,” she said quietly. It was true. She didn’t think so.

New plan. She’d give him (and herself) a little closure with this situation and then make him go away, or something. Then he would be satisfied that he wasn’t a pervert, at least not according to her, and she’d at least talked to a boy. Maybe she could casually bring it up in a conversation when her mother lamented the fact that she’d thrown her life away by being naked on the telly.

Or maybe not. Her mother would immediately tell all her relations and, by way of a surprise party, they’d throw her a wedding.

She wasn’t above hiring someone to be her pretend boyfriend for a weekend, although she’d never done it, but she was above marrying someone she had to pay so he would stay in a relationship with her.

“You don’t?” Jon asked, relieved. “Thank God.” His French accent had been growing stronger with his agitation and apparently also in relief.

She nodded for emphasis.

His brow furrowed again. “Then why did you bolt?”

Shit. She had hoped he wasn’t the Sherlock Holmes type. “I didn’t,” she said through her teeth.

“If it was your stop, why haven’t you gotten off today?”

His question caused her to throw a quick look at the blinking board signalizing the stations they had passed and the stations they had yet to go. The station she had bolted from yesterday wasn’t illuminated with the yellow point. Clearly, they had already past it.

Shit.

“I – I have to run an errand today?” she said, telling herself not to ask it like a question. It wasn’t. Maybe she would run an errand later today, just to clear her conscience.

“Are you asking me?” he asked, his mouth now twisting up in the beginning of a smile.

Shit. Didn’t she get paid to act?

“Yes.” Her voice was steady this time and she was even proud of herself before she realized that she’d answered in an affirmative. “I mean, no. Obviously, I mean no.”

Her voice wasn’t as steady as it had been just moments ago. Shit shit shit.

He ran his hands through his hair. “You know what?” he asked. “Let’s just begin again.”

He held out his hand. “Hi. I’m Jon. I like your Harry Potter t-shirt and the fact that you don’t think I’m a pervert for watching Game of Thrones, which I don’t watch for the naked women, and the fact that you didn’t bolt on me yet.”

She couldn’t resist when he gave her a lopsided smile. She put her hand in his and allowed herself to smile. He was just too cute.

“I’m Sansa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please review. The more reviews I get, the faster I write.  
> I don't own anything.


	3. t-shirt d'

The métro was late again.

She was cursing her luck. First her professor had held her back and had wanted to talk to her in private in his office about the final exam paper (she always felt like he was slightly favouring her and it was probably because of her being a lead in one of the most famous TV series right now, which meant he was trying to suck up to her for one reason or another, which made her like him even less) so that by the time she walked out of his classroom, the rain that had been announced for the day had already started pouring out of the sky and, not thinking she’d be caught in the early afternoon downpour, given the fact that her class let out at lunchtime. Then she had to walk all the way to the métro station, probably getting all her books wet in her backpack.

When the métro finally arrived at the station, she was cursing other things already, mainly the fact that she was now soaking wet and that, even though she didn’t want to, she couldn’t help but be saddened by the fact that she wouldn’t see Jon today. He was generally always on the earlier trains. 

She climbed up the steps and didn’t even bother looking for a seat. Her French language had improved since she had first come here, but not much and she still sounded so British she avoided speaking as much as humanly possible. All seats were generally taken on at least one side and she didn’t have the courage to ask and be outed as just another ‘tourist’ visiting Paris.

Like normally, she leaned her head. She felt tired and cold and disappointed. All in all, it had been a shitty day and that didn’t even count the fact that at home, she would have to start on the next homework assignment, one she had been dreading all year – the one for her history class.

History wasn’t her strong subject at all, which was a common tease-Sansa-about-it topic on set. When she thought about history, she generally imagined Dragons and White Walkers, but what could she say, she’d been on the show since the age of fifteen. Something should have rubbed off by now.

The train passed another train, a blur of watery windows and a quick glimpse of tired faces. The métro was relatively empty: The morning rush was over and the evening rush had yet to begin.

Someone cleared his throat and hope sparked up in her. She whirled and found herself face to face with a grinning Jon.

Today, he wore his all too familiar dark jacket and a t-shirt proclaiming him a rebel leader next to a picture of the Death Star currently being invaded and destroyed. His jeans, however, were slightly dirty and worn and his sneakers were scruffy and old. His hair was back in his bun which had come open so far that it now looked like he was wearing his hair half-up half-down.

He was also holding an extra-large Starbucks cup (what was it again? A venti?) and his eyes had light up with his smile.

He gave a graceful bow while putting the hand that wasn’t holding his coffee on his imaginary sword.

“Hello, Lady Sansa,” he said, still grinning like a fool.

When he noticed that she wasn’t smiling back as enthusiastically, he frowned slightly, his cheeks already turning red and the colour kept spreading until it went all the way down his neck. It was simply adorable to watch.

“Too much?” he asked, his accent stronger than it had been just a moment before. He took his free hand away and ran it through his hair, which caused his backpack to slip and the coffee to spill over the edge and dribble down the sides. He readjusted himself and turned the cup so he was then holding onto the non-slippery side, exposing the now smudged name scribbled on the side.

Sansa

Her heart stopped. Jon, still frowning, followed her gaze and his face went from red to white to red again.

“Right,” he said, and his accent was so thick now that she thought he might have actually been speaking French. “This is for you.” He awkwardly held out the coffee cup toward her.

She stared at it.

He blushed again and managed to run his hand through his hair, this time successful. “I – I thought you might need a little pick-me-up, you know, ‘cause it’s raining?” He shook his head. “Jon, t’es fou,” he mumbled to himself. “C’est juste une fille. Une belle fille intéressante qui tu aimes, mais juste une fille.”

She smiled to herself. He really was the cutest.

“Thank you,” she said, finally taking the cup. “For both the coffee, which, by the way, I really needed and you really didn’t have to get me, and calling me interesting.”

Calling her beautiful, she thought. He had called her beautiful.

She wanted to giggle and jump up and down while squealing out loud like a teenage girl and all of it with the coffee still in her hands.

He blushed again, smiling bashfully. “You’re welcome,” he mumbled, his French accent thick again.

Then he straightened, shaking himself. ‘Sorry,” he said. “So, what do you do? For a living, I mean?”

That fast, Game of Thrones came back into her mind and she hated the way she took a huge gulp of the coffee to avoid answering just yet.

“I’m in University,” she offered.

He regarded her anxiously. “Is the coffee good – like, I mean, right?”

She nodded. It was a simple coffee with just a hint of caramel. This wasn’t how she normally took her coffee, but she liked it nonetheless.

He blinked before picking up on what she had said, still looking at her like he wanted to make sure that the coffee really was perfect. It made her heart warm in a way that had nothing to do with the coffee.

“So, University, huh?” he said, running his hands through his hair again. “So that’s why you’re on the métro every day.” He blushed and quickly added, “not that I was stalking you, it’s just that, like, we’ve always met on the métro, so…”

It was refreshing to have a conversation, a real conversation, not just the haughty snippets her roommate gave her or the suck-up conversations she had had waaay too often with one of her fellow students who just wanted to be famous, with someone who wasn’t polished and/or confident. All her actor-friends were confident to a point she never could really follow. Jon wasn’t either, at all. It was one of the reasons she liked him so much.

She smiled. “So, where do you go?”

He stopped rambling at smiled bashfully. “I have two part-time jobs in between which I travel at around three o’clock. I’m also doing online University.”

“What do you do for jobs? And what are you studying?”

He blushed again. “I work at a hardware store, Castle Black, from mornings to three and on the weekend. I am a waiter at a restaurant in the afternoon and at night.” He cleared his throat, never looking away from her even while he blushed (again). “I’m studying to be an engineer.”

She smiled at him, generally impressed. “Wow, that’s pretty cool.”

He smiled again, his now all-too-familiar redness creeping up his neck. “Yeah, well. What do you do?”

She looked down at her shoes. “I haven’t really decided yet. I don’t know what I want to be.”

That was only slightly a lie. Thanks to the success of her debut role, she had managed to score several other roles in movies. It was clear to everyone that what she wanted to be was an actress, but she was already that. She wanted to be something else, too.

“That’s okay, too. How old are you?”

“Nineteen. And you?” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and he followed the movement.

“Twenty-two.”

There was a short bit of silence, neither of them sure of what exactly to say.

“Will you go out with me?” he blurted suddenly before turning beet-red.

“Like, on a date?” she croaked, her voice suddenly hoarse. He nodded, eyes wide and hopeful.

A date. Jon and she, at a dinner table, both of them dressed nicely. A nice meal, a steady conversation and afterward they might go to his apartment or so. He would kiss her and –  
His apartment. He was into Game of Thrones, there might be posters. Posters with her on them, and he’d know, and his eyes would go down to her breasts and – and – 

“No!” she gasped. “No, I won’t go on a date with you. No. No. No!”

She repeated the answer for emphasis, hoping to convince herself that this was the best solution. It was the best solution. It was also the only solution.

He looked taken aback, but it quickly changed to hurt although he tried hard to look impassive. “I see,” he said, and his voice was thick. He wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“Jon,” she said. “Jon. It’s not you, I’m just – in a difficult situation right now and-”

“You don’t have to explain,” he said, already moving to go. “I know I’m not – you don’t have to explain.”

She grabbed his arm and turned him toward her. “Jon,” she said. “I want to be friends with you. You’re very nice and funny and nerdy… which I like,” she added quickly when she saw his face. “I can’t… date right now. But – I might be, soon. And when – I’m ready, I would love to go on a date with you. Hell, I’ll even ask you personally. But until then… friends, okay?”

He looked at her from under his lashes. “I did kind of spring that question on you. Friends?” he said, a shy smile on his lips. “But later, maybe more?”

“I can’t promise you anything,” she said, wondering what she had gotten herself into. She just knew that she had just wanted to make it better. And she did want to date him, she really did. She also wanted to kiss him and run her hands through his hair.

But, if they were friends first, she could tell him about GoT and her acting and all that, and then he could decide for himself.

“Of course not. After all, this is only the third time we’ve met,” he said, but his smile grew, before becoming tentative once more. “Friends?”

She had a sudden idea and pulled her backpack down. With one hand, she rifled through it a little before finding what she was looking for: the chocolate bar she had wanted to eat as a sorry excuse for breakfast but hadn’t gotten to it. She handed it to him.

“I swear on the chocolate bar. I’m sure all oaths since the invention of chocolate bars have been sworn on them.”

His smile grew some more. “I’m sure that’s historically accurate? Does this oath also involve eating it?”

Her own smile widened in response. “Of course.”

 

Jon, t’es fou. – Jon, you’re crazy.  
C’est juste une fille. Une belle fille intéressante qui tu aimes, mais juste une fille. – It’s just a girl. A beautiful interesting girl who you like, but just a girl.


	4. Harry Potter

Normally, she spent her Monday classes with her head in her hands, trying not to fall asleep but today, she was on the edgy edge of her seat, staring at the clock. Hopefully, the professor didn’t note her desperation to get the hell out of this class.

However, her effects of begging a higher power that the professor would not look her way for too long and notice said disinterest was probably defeated by the fact that as soon as he dismissed them, she jumped up, threw all her stuff into her bag and made a run for it before most of the other students had woken up from their nap.

But of course, the moment she stepped, well, sprinted into the corridor, she collided with someone. He immediately started apologizing profusely, and picked up her bag for her, handing it to her with a smile. She smiled back hurriedly before grabbing it with the intention of sprinting down the corridor and leaving as quickly as possible, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm.

“Sansa? Sansa Stark?”

She froze and turned around, planning to deny it immediately, but it appeared too late, as he already had shining eyes. He was nearly jumping up and down, and instead of speaking French with her as most other French people (only a select few seemed to be blessed with the gift of language), he continued in English. It was clearly his native language, so he was an International Student just like her.

“I hoped I would meet you here, Sansa. You see, I want to start acting. Of course, I’m good, but I need an entrance into the world of celebs and I knew that you went here and I hoped that you could do me a favour and maybe recommend me for a couple of castings or something?”

Sansa took a deep breath. She had heard that question from hopeful faces way too much in the last couple of years. It reminded her strongly of the fact that when she had returned to her school after the first season, she had more best friends than she could remember leaving behind. And when Joffrey Baratheon had asked her out, just to demand that she get him a role in a big series or he’d humiliate her in front of everyone, she had opted to do school online with a couple of other girls in the neighbourhood. Her parents had understood her reasoning and even though Arya had stomped her foot and declared it completely unfair that Sansa was allowed to ‘drop out of school’, she had from then on stayed at home.

Still, now that she went back to an ‘official’ school, she had gotten the question more than once from several hopefuls.

“Look,” she said, glancing at the clock. She really had to go. “Look,” she started again.

“Tommen,” he said, confusing her stammering for a lack of name. “My name is Tommen.”

“Look, Tommen,” she said. “I’m really late for…something. Can we maybe do this later?”

She didn’t expect the way his face immediately fell. “Okay,” he said, sounding suspiciously close to tears. “Of course. You probably get that question a lot. I’m sorry, I’ll just…”

Oh, God. She was a monster. “But…” she added quickly. “Maybe you could give me your phone number and I could…text you details if I find anything.”

His face lit up immediately and he scrambled for a pen and a piece of paper and wrote down his phone number. She glanced at the clock again. Shit. She’d have to run.

“Thank you,” she said quickly, taking the piece of paper from him. He squeezed her arm quickly, his smile like the sun.

“No. Thank you.”

She managed a quick smile back. Oh bloody hell, she was so late.

Quickly, she raced down the corridors, leaving Tommen to his daydreams. Maybe if she ran, she would make it.

But of course, the one day that her classes cut the métro time really close, the métro was on time. She arrived just in time to see the back of the métro vanish into the distance. Letting out a string of curses, she gave the métro a nasty look. It was her one opportunity of seeing Jon, and she hadn’t seen him all weekend. Why didn’t she have his phone number?

She stood leaning against one of the polls for a while until a delay was announced. It appeared that someone had fallen onto the railways in station Charles de Gaulle – Étoile. She rolled her eyes, annoyed. Not only has she missed her one chance to see Jon today, but she isn’t even able to start work on the various papers that are due yet. She sighed, deciding that instead of waiting what would certainly not be ‘cinq minutes’ as the announcer’s voice said, she would visit the city. She needed a book for one of her classes and also some milk.

Swiping her card through the checkpoint, she bunched up her shoulders and walked to the closest Monoprix. Milk wasn’t hard to find and she also bought a box of chocolate mints to make herself feel better and also to make wallowing in self-pity later easier.

The bookshop was a little down the street, so she sighed a dramatic sigh and started walking. There were a lot of people on the street, mostly tourists with thick shopping bags and cameras. She tucked some of her red hair into her jacket, just to be safe. The last thing she wanted today was to be recognized again.

Quickly she hurried toward the bookstore, reaching it without any problems, but before she could enter it, someone nearly knocked her over (again) trying to cross the street in a hurry. Sansa took a deep breath and righted herself. This stupid day could go and f – 

“Sansa?”

Oh, God, not again. She rolled her eyes and contemplated lying down on the ground and just staying there forever, living of milk and chocolate mints.

“Sansa? Is that you?” 

The English, spoken with a familiar French accent, had her jerking her head up. There stood Jon, wearing a familiar smile, his curls ruffled around his face.

She smiled back, suddenly not caring that her day was shitty and she was still in a weird position from her almost-fall. When he reached to steady her, she was even thankful because he was holding her waist and she had an excuse to lean against her.

“Hey,” she said, brushing her hair out of her face. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked, and the question would have sounded hostile if he wasn’t still smiling at her like an idiot. 

“Books,” she said, making a random motion toward the bookstore. “You?”

He smiled, pointing at his shirt. It was black but had a white print on it, spelling out the words Free Hugs. Under them was a smiley face with his arms spread wide, clearly very happy.

“Free Hugs?” she asked incredulously.

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking bashful. “We’re raising money for breast cancer research,” he said, his accent, as always when he was nervous or unsure or embarrassed, thicker. “Everyone can have a free hug. Donation is choice.”

“Oh,” she said, and she couldn’t believe how cute he was. So cute and perfect. He couldn’t be more perfect.

He smiled at her again. “I volunteer in my free time.”

Scratch what she had just said. He had just become even more perfect.

“Hugs shouldn’t hurt,” he added.

“No they shouldn’t,” she said.

“Do you…want one?” he asked, smiling hopefully.

“Of course,” she said.

He leaned in, pulling her upright by her waist and then wrapped his arms tightly around her. She was on her tiptoes, her breasts mushed into his chest, her face in his neck.

It was the best hug ever.

He didn’t let her go for a while, which gave her the chance to take a huge lungful of his cologne. It – or was it just him? – smelled amazing.

Carefully he bent his head down and put it to her ear. She was already shivering before he even started talking.

“My maman had breast cancer when I was little,” he whispered. “I volunteer so that one day little boys and girls don’t have to go through what I had to manage at such a young age.”

She shuddered. His breath felt nice, and his admission made him a thousand times more attractive.

“That’s great,” she mumbled into his shoulder.

He let her go eventually, and she mourned the loss of him. Still, she was glad she had seen this side of him.

“Where do I donate?” she asked, a little unsteady on her feet.

“Over there,” he pointed. She smiled up at him one last time before wobbling over. Quickly she checked her wallet, which had depressingly little money in it.

“Do you take checks?” she asked the small rounder man at the donating station.

He shook his head. “I’m just a substitute. Sorry.”

“Can I donate online?”

“Sure!” he said, smiling brightly. She smiled back. Being on a hit television show and in several movies had given her quite a lot of money that she hadn’t been able to use much.

Sure, she wanted to donate, but she hadn’t figured out a good organization yet. But whatever was close to Jon’s heart had to be good.

“Thanks,” she said, before turning to go. Then she remembered a vital thing she had forgotten to ask.

“Phone number!” she blurted out. The young man blinked. 

“What?”

“Nothing.” She said, before turning to walk back to Jon. He raised his eyebrows and blushed as he saw her returning.

“Can I get your number?”

He blushed harder, but also smiled stupidly.

“Yeah,” he said and his French accent was so thick that he could have been speaking French. He cleared his throat. “Of course.”

She handed him a pen and for the lack of paper, her arm. He quickly scribbled his phone number on her arm, turning redder and redder while doing so. She smiled at his curls as he had his head bent over her arm.

“See you tomorrow, on the métro?” she asked hopefully.

He ducked his head and nodded. 

Don’t kiss him, she told herself. Don’t kiss him. It’s too soon. He doesn’t know the truth yet. For God’s Sake, Sansa, don’t kiss him!

“Bye,” she said, smiling at him and walking away slowly.

He waved at her when she turned at the end of the road.

It took her about three hours to stop smiling and five hours to remember about the book she was supposed to buy.

 

Cinq minutes – five minutes  
Maman – mum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Donate to the Breast Cancer Research Foundation: https://give.bcrf.org/checkout/donation?eid=31404


	5. que

Author’s Note: There are several references to the ‘métro’ in this chapter that actually refer to the RER (Réseau Express Régional), which is a rapid transit system in Paris. I just kept up the name ‘métro’ to keep it simpler for people who are not French or who do not come from Paris.  
‘Merde’ means as much as ‘shit’ (the curse word).  
Also, I’m sorry.

 

It was one of the rare days that Jon and she had a little more time on the métro together.

Sansa had a late orientation class. She still had no idea what she wanted to ultimately do, so she’d been trying to catch up on some options.

One of her classmates had addressed her on this a couple of days ago, asking why she would work at all, if she could just spend her time at home, doing whatever she wanted, or acting in some movie and earn some more money. The pay didn’t seem to be the issue.

And it wasn’t. Sansa had never had to live in poverty, but ever since she’d started acting, money had flowed in, mostly from Game of Thrones, but also from other movies. Some companies were willing to offer a lot of money to have her in a commercial or on a billboard.

But Sansa had always wanted to do more in her life than live off of money she had previously made or just expand her acting career. When it came down to it, she wanted to be able to say that she would make a great…whatever it was she decided she would become. Not just some actor.

So she went to the orientations and to all her classes and continued online when she was acting somewhere. She knew that her words and her actions were contrary: she said she wanted to be able to do more than act for the rest of her life, yet she acted all the time and made lots of money. How would she have time to do other things?

Life was just so complicated.

Especially when you still hadn’t told the guy you kinda-sorta had a crush on that you were an actor and, by the way, he had seen you without a top before. And so had all his guy friends.

And she made up her mind to do it, but then she would actually spend a métro ride with Jon and his cute nerdy shirts and his cute French accent and she’d forget all about her big promises.

Like right now. Jon was going home from work, and Sansa had left her apartment insanely early just to be able to spend the métro ride with him, but he didn’t need to know that.

Today he was wearing a shirt with the writing, Xavier Institute: For Higher Learning. Mutatis Mutandis and the matching sign printed on it. Sansa had to bite her tongue from telling him she’d actually been in one of the movies.

Her tightrope was growing more fragile every day.

She was holding one of the coffee she had bought for herself when she had picked one up for him. He had smiled and laughed, but taken hold of it thankfully. He’d said that he’d spend most of his night up working on papers that were due for his college after he’d had a late shift at the restaurant.

Now they were leaning against the bars the métro had for all the people who didn’t have a place to sit and were just chatting.

Jon was in the middle of telling one of his restaurant horror stories, gesticulating and getting excited, which Sansa had learned was always when his French accent became the most prominent.

It was so cute.

And sexy. This was another problem she’d been having after they had managed to coordinate their times on the métro together. She was starting to realize just how incredibly sexy Jon really was.

His accent. The hint of muscles when he moved. His hair that always looked like he had just raked his hands through it, or like someone else had raked her hands through it. His shy smile and just him in general.

It was strange. For quite some time she had felt no attraction toward men: she had assumed it was because when they were filming Game of Thrones, she was surrounded by beautiful men and their sculpted abs and insane biceps day in and day out. It became normal, and she had stopped to think about the beauty of men she saw on the streets.

But Jon had a different kind of beauty to him. Not the manly and muscled kind: the nice and shy kind, a man who might surprise you.

She was used to being objectified: in her line of work, it was necessary. There were workout specialists helping her get into shape before a new season: makeup artists who contoured the lines of her body to be perfect. This was nice for a change.

“And then he sent the steak back again, saying it wasn’t salty enough this time!”

Sansa laughed, which ended in a little sigh over the way Jon had pronounced his words.

Jon was smiling at her, looking at her through his curls. She had the strong urge to push his hair back from his forehead.

You can’t, she reminded herself. Desperately, she looked at his Xavier Institute shirt. There is a reason you can’t.

But I want to.

She bit the thought back. Tell him about your acting career, and you can.

“Are you alright?” Jon asked, looking genuinely concerned. The métro came to a shaky halt at a station and as a result, his hair fell further into his eyes.

Sansa’s body came to a sudden conclusion before her mind could react. Her hand reached out, wanting to push that strand away, but her mind reacted before that, pulling her hand back.

Unfortunately, it was the hand that held her (mostly full) coffee cup.

She gasped as the liquid hit her. It wasn’t that hot anymore, but it was still a shock.

“Oh God,” she heard Jon say, then she felt him take the coffee cup from her hands and throw it away into the nearest trash can. It was probably for the best, or she would have hurt herself with it or something.

“Sorry,” he said, sounding genuinely apologetic.

She wondered why he was sorry. He hadn’t done anything.

Sansa looked up to meet his eyes. Jon still looked a little shocked, but he smiled at her.

Then his eyes drifted a little lower…and widened.

Because of the cold weather, she had worn a thick jumper. She hated lugging around a jacket from class to class. Unfortunately, her thick jumper was white…and not coffee resistant, no matter the thickness.

She cursed earlier Sansa. Why had she worn a nude bra?

A man in one of the aisle seats looked up from his phone and whistled. She flushed red and tried to move her arms in front of her in a way that would cover the outline of her breasts, her eyes trained on the ground.

There was a rustle and in the next moment, Jon was holding out his Xavier Institute shirt. She took it gratefully, setting down her backpack to swipe it over her head, thankful for the privacy it offered, still flushed red from the short moment of embarrassment.

“Thanks,” she mumbled. The shirt was nice and warm, but her own shirt felt uncomfortable and wet underneath. Still, she momentarily forgot about her discomfort as she caught the scent that clung to his shirt.

The wet sensation hit her fully with the wind that blew in from the opening of the métro doors and she shivered involuntarily.

“Merde, you must be cold. Do you want to go home and change?” Jon asked, making a move toward her and then tentatively putting his arm around her shoulder. She shivered again, this time for completely different reasons.

“I – I don’t think so,” she said with chattering teeth. She was still way too early, but the lecture she attended was across town and she didn’t want to risk it.

Jon cursed again, a soft string of French. Then he abruptly stopped.

“Sansa?”

“Ye-es?” she shivered. Why had she not brought a jacket?

“I live close to here. If you’re not opposed to coming with me, I could give you a clean shirt and you could change there.”

“Really?” she asked, before the full force of what he was offering hit her. She was going to see his apartment. His actual apartment with his nerdy stuff and everything.

“Absolutely.”

“Ummm – okay, sure.”

Even with her nervousness of there being a Game of Thrones picture with her face on it, she really couldn’t afford to stay in these clothes, and, okay, the temptation of seeing his apartment was pretty big.

Jon didn’t say anything after that, he just carefully kept his arm around her, holding her tight against his warmth. Both of them were situated a little awkwardly, but Sansa didn’t want to move and ruin the moment. Jon also didn’t seem inclined to give up his positions, so they remained that way.

It turned out Jon only lived another station further. Sansa immediately made a mental note of exactly where, feeling guilty as she did so. This was probably stalking.

You’re here with the guy you would be stalking, she reminded herself.

His home was in an apartment block that loomed over the suburb situated surprisingly close to the inner city. Sansa was well aware of the fact that the closer you lived to the city center, the more expensive housing was. Not that she thought he was poor, but he was working two full-time jobs while attending online University.

Jon looked awkward as he unlocked the front door. “I know the owner,” he explained as he flushed a bright red. “He was nice enough to give me a bit of a discount. This place is really close to the Hardware store I work at, and it’s a nice neighborhood.”

Sansa nodded. Having a little experience herself now in what it meant to live in Paris’ suburbs, she understood the value of a good neighborhood.

“The apartment is further devalued by the fact that the métro passes by close to here quite often. The whole building shakes when that happens.”

“Oh,” Sansa said. She looked around in the foyer as Jon pressed the lift button. It was depressingly gray, like a rainy day where nothing went as planned.

They rode up to the fifth floor, where Jon unlocked the apartment and held open the door for her. It was a simple, one-room apartment: the foyer ended in a corner where Jon had placed (or crammed) a couch and a TV. There were two closed rooms and an open kitchen with a large window. It was all painted a cheerful blue, but there was almost nothing personal lying around except a couple of jackets and an extra pair of shoes which Jon hastily shuffled out of the way.

He pointed to one of the doors. “Bathroom,” he said, then, pushing the other door open, “and bedroom. It’s also where my clothes are,” he added quickly.

Sansa peeked into his bedroom.

It was painted in a lighter blue than the rest of his apartment. There was a desk with a laptop still open, a wardrobe, a bookcase and a bed. 

It was all decidedly messy.

The laptop was surrounded by papers and sticky notes, one of the wardrobe doors was open, the books were all thrown into the shelves with a large map of Westeros also peeking out and the bed sheets were crumpled on the bottom of the bed.

Sansa wanted to laugh at the way Jon’s ears flushed.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “It’s a mess.”

“It’s fine. I didn’t come to judge you. You’re doing me a favor, remember?”

Jon nodded and quickly crossed over to the wardrobe, and, after a quick deliberation, pulling out a shirt and a jacket. The shirt was a plain black one and the jacket was red and had a Rebel Leader sign on the back, complete with the flight helmet. “If you’d rather I find something else…” he said, turning even redder.

“No, thank you, these are fine.”

She took them from him, stepped out into the hall and into his bathroom.

It was decidedly neater than the rest of the house. Everything was clean and organized. While Sansa was shucking off her clothes to replace them, she was wondering if maybe she shouldn’t have just left. She could have stayed. If he was a Game of Thrones fan, what she would reveal would be nothing new to him.

Shaking that thought from her head, she pulled the shirt over her head. She could not wear her wet bra, so she left it off altogether. Feeling self-conscious, she quickly pulled the jacket shut over her chest. Then she exited the bathroom, not wanting to look into the mirror.

She found Jon in the kitchen. He had busied himself with making tea and she gladly accepted the cup he offered her, glancing at his oven clock as she took a sip.

The kitchen had a massive window that showed the gray sky over more building blocks much like his own. If the sun was shining, it would probably be a gorgeous view.

“Thanks,” she said as he turned back to her, a cup of tea in his own hand now, too. “I owe you.”

He shook his head. “You owe me nothing.”

She smiled shyly. The atmosphere was a little awkward, the silence not really a good one.

“Thanks anyway.” She took another sip. “I should probably go soon if I want to attend my orientation class.” She laughed quietly. “I’ll be the one looking the nerdiest, that’s for sure.”

He smiled faintly, studying her. His scrutiny made her feel a little strange.

“Now would be a good time to tell me if you’re a serial killer.”

Jon blinked, the intensity broken. “No. No, I’m not a serial killer.”

“Good.”

They sipped for a couple of minutes in silence.

“Your apartment is less nerdy than I expected it to be.”

He laughed, surprised. “What did you expect?”

“Well, fictional maps on every wall, framed by posters and more posters. Maybe like a medieval sword in the corner or something.”

He chuckled, setting his tea down. “No, I take those down when I bring a potential victim home.”

She laughed as well, then focused her eyes on the view once more. “This is really beautiful…”

“Sansa.”

She started. He was directly before her.

“Don’t tell me we have reached such a barren bit of conversation that we need to talk about the weather or the view.”

Sansa smiled, but she couldn’t concentrate on much but her breathing. He was so close. She could see every detail up close, like the indentures of where his dimples were.

“We haven’t,” she told him.

“Good.”

He didn’t move a muscle, but it felt like he was closer than he had been before.

“I should really go to that orientation. I just-” She knew that her cheeks were red. Setting her unfinished tea down, she stepped out of the kitchen and into the foyer, picking up her backpack and swinging it over her shoulder. “Thank you for the clothes and the…oh.”

She made the last sound because there was Jon again, smiling his shy smile. She had stepped right into his chest as she turned because she was so focused on fleeing before she gave in and kissed him. Now her breasts were right against him and he could probably tell that she wasn’t wearing her bra.

A bra that still lay in the bathroom. She had to remember to bring it.

Unfortunately, right now it was very hard to remember anything.

“Sansa,” he said and she was leaning in, focusing on his lips, her arms twining around his neck, she could feel his breath on her lips and oh, she wanted this.

Just as their lips were about to meet, she caught a glimpse of something on the couch over his shoulder.

It was a book. The title wasn’t discernable from this distance, but she knew that cover anywhere.

It was A Storm of Swords by George R. R. Martin.

And just like that, the spell was broken.

Her arms fell away from his neck and she pulled away.

“I’m sorry!” she said hastily. “I have to…”

She didn’t look at him as she pushed away from him, tore open the door and ran down the stairs as fast as she had never run before. She tore the door open on the ground level and ran all the way to the métro station.

Jon didn’t catch up to her. Not as she waited, not as she stepped into the métro and not as she buried her face in her arms.


	6. je n'adore pas

Author’s Note: Sorry for yet another long break. I’m trying to edit my own manuscript, but it’s garbage, so I came back to this. I don't really know if this chapter is any good - my writing life has become a garbage disposal.  
Je suis désolé – I’m sorry  
Merde – a swear word about as serious as ‘shit’.  
Bonjour – Hello (more of a formal greeting)  
Je veux un – I want a

 

She avoided the métro completely in the next few days. Even though she felt that an apology was very much necessary (from her to Jon), but she couldn’t face him. Facing him would probably mean having to tell him the truth about why exactly she freaked out that day in his apartment and every time she thought about it, all her muscles locked up.

Another option was the phone number Jon had given her the day he’d raised money for the breast cancer research foundation that she had never used. She had never known what to write.

Funnily enough even two simple words like ‘I’m sorry’ were too hard.

Finally, several days after she started using a rented bike to drive to University every day (it was an absolute pain: traffic was dangerous for everyone who was smaller than everyone else and it took almost two hours to get there as a result), it was pouring down like mad.

Sansa didn’t kid herself: there was no way she was going to drive a bike in that weather.

It was a decision she regretted pretty quickly after stepping onto the métro. She remembered all the fears about Jon and the possibility that he may be on this very métro with her.

Her palms became clammy and she wiped them off on her already damp jeans, which had somehow managed to get wet even though she ran all the way to the métro station and was hardly outside for more than two minutes.

The métro was stuffed: even though the air outside smelled, for once, rather fresh (one of the great positive effects rain had. Even Sansa had to admit this, despite the fact that the rain was at fault for her current dilemma), none of it had reached the inside of the carriage she was currently on.

She leaned far into the bar she was holding for support (all the seats were taken) and tried to discreetly search the carriage for Jon without raising any looks.

He didn’t appear to be in the same place as she, at least, so she relaxed and looked away from all the people and their vacant stares, choosing instead to look at the ceiling.

She counted the stations, willing them to go by faster, just – 

“Sansa?”

Everything inside her froze. She didn’t want to turn around and look at the voice who had addressed her.

But she couldn’t just ignore him forever, so eventually, she did turn.

And there he was.

Jon looked like he’d slept about eight minutes the whole week. There were bags under his eyes: his hair was in disarray and both his jeans and his ‘Join the Resistance!’ BB8 jacket was crumbled like it had spent the night on his bedroom floor.

His eyes, however, shone bright and concerned, taking in every bit of her. She felt the heat rise to her cheeks.

Sansa would be the first to admit that she’d spent minimal effort on her looks today. Her jeans had passed their washing date without touching a washing machine and her plain black jacket was soaked through. Her red hair was thrown up in a messy bun (and not the kind her hairstylists spend hours on trying to make it look effortless – the one that lets hair stick randomly out of your head and looks like you haven’t showered in a week) that had gone frizzy with the rain. There was not a touch of makeup on her skin, which was probably a good thing as the mascara would have gone everywhere.

“Jon,” she answered. Then she clamped her mouth shut, because what kind of response was that?

They just stood across from each other now.

Jon moved first, stepping closer toward her. She automatically took a step back. His face fell.

“Sansa, look, I’m sorry,” he said, looking so much like a kicked puppy that she wanted to pet him. His strong French accent, as always extra thick with his heightened mood, wasn’t helping her guilt.

She blinked, slow to understand. What did he to be sorry for? She’d fled from his apartment with no explanation after she’d been about to kiss him.

Her eyes flitted to his lips, then up again, mentally scolding herself. This was not the time or the place, she told herself.

He clearly thought her gaze meant something else because he ended up looking even more distressed.

“Look, I know that when I asked you on a date, you said you needed time. Je suis désolé – merde – sorry.” His accent had slipped into French altogether. If circumstances had been different, she would have smiled. Now she waited, nervous, wanting to just blurt out her apology but not knowing how.

He took a deep breath, his eyes focused on his shoes. Then he looked back up, meeting her eyes. Startled, she held them.

“I’m sorry for trying to kiss you,” he said plainly. His ears turned red, but he kept going. “I know that’s not what you wanted. Please, I can be just your friend.”

Her eyes widened. “No, Jon, that’s not – it wasn’t you – I was also-” She clutched the support bar tighter, took a deep breath and spoke the cliché that was the only way to show him what she was feeling.

“It’s not you, it’s me, okay?”

Jon stared. Then his lips – oh, his glorious and beautiful lips, no, Sansa, cut it out! – turned up into one of his glorious smiles.

“Did you really use that line on me?”

She couldn’t help it, laughing right along with him. The tension of the moment had broken and her shoulders sagged.

It took only a moment for Jon to regain his seriousness. “You didn’t answer my question. We can remain friends, can’t we?”

Sansa nodded, standing up straight again.

Even though she had nodded, he cleared his throat and added, “I promise I will behave myself. Even though…” he trailed off and his eyes flitted to her lips in a similar fashion hers had done with him.

Was he thinking the same thoughts she had been thinking earlier?

She couldn’t think straight. All she wanted was to kiss him like she almost had in his apartment.

Do the French always French kiss? Was that a rule, maybe one of their innermost laws, ingrained in their government?

Sansa tried to shake herself out of her thoughts. He might be able to control herself but she wasn’t.

They had only just made up, she reminded herself, but there was the other reminder in the back of her head that if it hadn’t been for a conveniently placed George R. R. Martin book, she would have kissed Jon in his apartment.

And there was no Game of Thrones here.

Sansa had very little actual kissing experience, which most people don’t suspect from someone who’s been naked on international television at such a young age. She’d kissed exactly three people and, embarrassingly, it had been for a movie set every time.

Those weren’t exactly kisses, either: everyone would laugh and joke, then film the scene and go straight back to laughing and joking.

Furthermore, what most fans assumed were actual sexy make-out sessions were surrounded by cameras and loudspeakers and all of the filming crew: there was nothing sexy about kissing someone while someone next to you comments on how much tongue you need and can you please suck his lip and jut your chest out more…ah, perfect!

And when the actor’s girlfriend was on set as well, Sansa felt extra bad, even though they’d never been mean to her. It was scary nonetheless, making out with someone else’s man while that person saw everything.

All in all, her romantic relationships outside of GoT were…nonexistent. Sansa had been young when she first appeared onscreen and had been wary of who to trust, too afraid that someone would use her.

But Jon…he seemed so good. For the first time in Sansa’s (truly pathetic love) life, she wanted to go on a date with someone, get to know them better.

“Sansa?” Jon asked again. She turned to him again.

“Yeah, we’re good,” she said vaguely, not sure what he had asked her. “I’m cold. Do you want to get some coffee or something?”

He checked his watch. “I don’t work for two hours. I – I took an earlier métro hoping I’d find you,” he answered, the last part of his sentence turning sheepish.

“Shall we?” she asked then.

“Don’t you have class?”

She did, but the professor made her skin crawl. The real reason she’d wanted to go to the University today was to pick up a research paper she’d handed in last week, but she could email the professor about her grade.

It didn’t seem that important all of a sudden.

“No,” she answered. “Let’s do it.”

The next stop was announced over the speakers and Jon turned toward the doors. “Shall we?”

They got off the métro together and walked toward the closest coffee shop. It was big and unwelcoming, painted a sickly gray, but they just wanted coffee anyway.

After picking a coffee choice, she walked up to the counter first. When she glanced behind her, Jon was still reading the menu, but he smiled at her.

“Bonjour,” Sansa said in hesitant French. She was aware how much her English accent shone through. “Je veux un…”

“Excuse me,” the barista replied in rough English, narrowing his eyes at her. “Aren’t you on television?”

Her blood drained from her face. “No, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Even though she’d rejected his claim, he seemed more confident in it now. “Sure, you’re that girl on Game of Swords or something.” He leered at her, peering directly at her chest.

“Go on, show me some tits.”

She gasped, pulling the jacket closer around her. The barista snorted. “It’s not something I can’t look at if I look you up. Go on, just a peek. I want to see them in real life.”

Sansa stepped back, bile rising up in her throat. She wanted to look and see if Jon saw any of this.

“I should ask you to let me touch them: they are your best feature. A squeeze, perhaps? I’ll give you your coffee for free. No? You at least owe me a flash of the twins.”

She shook her head fervently from one side to the other, turning. Jon was standing there, watching in horror. He said a few quick French words she didn’t understand, but the barista looked furious. When he opened his mouth to reply, she pulled Jon out of the coffee shop quickly, not wanting the barista to repeat what he had said.

Out in the street, out of sight from the coffee shop, she stopped and bent forward taking a deep breath. Several people tutted as they had to swerve in order not to hit her in their hurried steps, but she didn’t care.

Jon was there beside her, stroking her back. “Sansa, are you okay? What else did he say to you? Shall I go in and get him fired?”

She looked at him through her hair. The downpour had slowed to a drizzle when they’d stepped from the métro but now it had stopped completely. He was illuminated against the grey sky, concerned and worried and oh so beautiful.

He was lovely.

There had always been people like that barista, thinking they could make her do these things simply because she had chosen to underline her acting with her body. It had taken weeks to cheer her up the first time, but over time, it got better. She was already internally brushing it off.

Jon was the thing that was new.

Game of Thrones held her back in many ways. She didn’t have as many friends because often people would befriend her and then ask her to make them famous. Often, she was seen as an opportunity.

She didn’t want to be an opportunity anymore and she didn’t want to be held back anymore.

In that moment, she reached up onto her tiptoes, cupped Jon’s face and kissed the corner of his mouth. Then she kissed the other corner and his chin and finally, she pressed a soft kiss right against his lips. They were rough and chapped, but they were Jon’s and that made them glorious.

“Thank you,” she said.

What she thought was that she had to tell him, and soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!  
> (Now comes the cringy self-promotion)  
> I have (just got) a blog in which I talk about my independent writing projects and about my own personal journey a little. Would you like to be friends? Come visit me! (See, told you it would be awkward)  
> emilyann273239016.wordpress.com - sorry for all the numbers: I'm a struggling student who can't afford more.


	7. comme

Author's note: In this chapter, I ignore the headline that claims Game of Thrones actors have self-destructing scripts. Sorry.  
Check out my blog!  
emilyann273239016.wordpress.com

 

It was the day she got the new Game of Thrones script in an email that awareness of her situation started to seep in.

Even though Sansa had always known that she'd have to leave soon again, it now seemed like she had an impossible short time left with Jon.

She had to tell him. Soon.

Closing her email, she turned and faced her small bedroom. It was Saturday morning, and despite the gloomy weather forecast the thin sunlit was making its way through her window. Sansa was still dressed in her pyjamas and she had initially opened her computer in the hopes of getting some work done, but it seemed like she could forget about that now.

There would be no encounter with Jon today, but suddenly she craved his presence.

His kiss...

They had only kissed a couple more times after their kiss in front of the coffee shop, all closed-mouthed and chaste kisses, and she had rarely been so happy about anything.

A thought popped into her head in that moment. She could go and visit him. She knew where he lived now after all, and he still owed her a bra. Too shy to ask for it until now, she hadn't gotten it back yet.

Sansa shook her head. She couldn't just walk in, not even knowing whether he would be home.

But, she reasoned, she had audio book to listen to for one of her classes and she might as well do that on the métro as she could in her room.

Quickly, before she could convince herself otherwise, she went to her closet and picked out a pair of skinny jeans and a top. Not a nerdy one this time, simply a red top and a cardigan.

On her way out, bringing only her phone and a pair of headphones, she grabbed a cereal bar from the kitchen and quickly slipped on her sneakers. Even though a look outside seemed to suggest it unnecessary, she grabbed her rain jacket as well.

The métro was just in the station as she walked out onto the platform, which meant there was no turning back. Putting in her headphones in, Sansa found a seat and tried to look at no one. The last thing she needed was to be recognized by anyone.

When she got off at Jon's station, she contemplated simply going back, but she dismissed the idea. It was ridiculous.

The streets in front of Jon's flat were crowded, but no one else stood in front of the building when Sansa buzzed the doorbell.

There were a couple of minutes where Sansa debated which would be worse: if he was home, or if he wasn't.

Finally, the intercom cracked. "Oui?" came Jon's voice.

Everything inside her froze. Suddenly, she didn't know what to say or do. She wanted to run.

"Oui?"

"Jon?" she whispered. Even though it was more a half-hearted attempt, her voice was picked up, because the door buzzed open.

On the way up the stairs, Sansa tried her best to prep herself for what was to come. Now was the time to tell him.

Of course, the moment she saw him, standing in his doorway and smiling, she threw all that prepping into the wind.

"To what do I owe this...beautiful surprise?" he asked when she reached him.

She smiled weakly, but nevertheless accepted his kiss with fervor.

"I'm here to...pick up my bra," she said a little dazed, stepping out of the circle of his arms.

Jon blushed immediately but smiled. "You could have simply asked for it," he said, pulling her close again in a way that was very distracting.

"Mmhmm," she answered, distracted, and before she could get nervous again, she leaned up and kissed him again.

It was more intense than before, as she hesitantly opened her mouth against his and the kiss suddenly became a lot more heated. Jon groaned softly into her mouth, gently pressing her up against the doorframe. She pushed her hands into his hair, pulling him sideways into his flat. He chuckled breathlessly against her lips, closing the door.

When he tore himself away, she abruptly remembered what she came to do, but promptly forgot it again when he gently kissed her cheek and moved toward her neck.

"Was there something else?" he murmured against his neck, and she could feel his smile.

"Actually," she said, breathing a little quicker than usually, "actually there was something."

"Oh yeah?" he said, pulling his mouth away from her neck, but not before leaving a kiss in the corner of her mouth.

She stared at his beautiful face. His curls were in disarray, probably from her fingers, and his eyes were glowing. His lips were a little more swollen than usually.

He looked nervous, probably because Sansa wanted to discuss something. To calm him, she wrapped her arms around his neck.

Too late she noticed that this made it even harder to tell him the truth.

Just as she worked up the courage, he pushed his hands into her hair and cradled her head so gently that she wanted to cry.

Sansa couldn't do this. She couldn't.

"Will you - will you go out with me?"

He pulled back a little, frowning, so she kept going.

"When you asked me out and I rejected you, remember, I said that I would ask you out myself when I was ready. Remember? So, will you go out with me?"

Jon was quiet for a couple of minutes, then he cupped her face, kissing her quickly. "Yes, of course, it would be an honor, my darling."

Sansa smiled, kissing him again.

She really, really had to tell him.


	8. je

Author’s Note: Sorry for having been MIA lately, and sorry that this is short again. Recently, I’ve been researching like crazy for my Maiden Voyage story, because it is my favorite and my baby. It’s my first historical fiction and I want to do it justice.  
(Enough plugging? No? GO READ IT.)  
Anyway, before we get on to this, let me plug other things, too. My baby blog is found here. https://emilyann273239016.wordpress.com  
Also, I know that I never respond to comments unless they’re questions (and even then…well), but I see each and every one. They make my day, and even make me write quicker. (So…I only need ten years to update instead of fifteen!) I just thought you all should know that.  
And yes I’m aware that my author’s notes take up half the chapters. I’m a rambly person and I consider you all my friends.  
Great. That is done. Let me destroy Jonsa’s relationship now.  
Oh, don’t give me that look, you all knew it was coming.

 

Sansa found herself at the familiar place in front of Jon’s flat, waiting for him to let her in. She was still slightly giddy from the date they had been on. It had included a fast-food takeaway dinner eaten on a bench because she had been too nervous that she’d be recognized at some of the more popular restaurants. Still, she had pushed those thoughts away for the most part and tried to simply have a nice date, which in Jon’s presence had been incredibly easy. This form of date had also worked in her favor on Jon’s side, as he had later confessed that restaurants made him anxious.

Still, she couldn’t keep going like this. It was time to tell him.

Jon had invited her over for today for what he said was a casual meet-up: his friend and that friend’s girlfriend would come over and they would all watch some Harry Potter. His friend, Sam, was English like her and had moved to Paris because of Gilly’s and his relationship. 

Jon insisted that Harry Potter in French was absolutely worth watching, but Sansa saw through the thinly veiled disguise.

He wanted her to meet his friends.

This knowledge made Sansa feel both giddy and extremely nervous. This progress in their relationship indicated that he was very committed to…whatever they were doing, (dating?) and she hadn’t even told him this fundamental piece in her personal history.

As if on cue with her personal failures, a light drizzle began. She jumped from one leg to another, not prepared for rain in her light jacket over her gray dress, and felt an enormous sense of relief when the door finally buzzed open.

Sansa chased up the stairs so fast that she had gotten a nasty sideburn by the time she was at Jon’s level, her wheezing breath reminding her painfully that she needed to start working out again, especially if she had to be naked again onscreen. She hadn’t checked yet, as it felt like a betrayal to Jon to even look at the email attachment.

He greeted her at the door with such an open and beaming smile that her knees became weak and her shame grew. Still, she suppressed both of those feelings in favor of pulling his head down to hers.

The kiss lasted only a closed-mouthed second, then he pulled away. Immediately she could see that he was nervous, gnawing on his lower lip and shifting, and dread built almost immediately inside of her.  
“Hi,” she said nervously.

“Hello,” he said back, or tried to, but the French accent made it an “’ello’. She immediately knew the extent of his feelings (strong) and tried to fend off further nerves with deep breathing.

“Is…are you okay?” she asked instead, quickly taking him in. He looked a little fancier than usual, dressed in a button-down shirt instead of his normal t-shirts and what looked to be new jeans. His feet were bare as a contrast and his hair stuck out to all ends, probably from his fingers.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, gesturing for her to step into his flat. “Come in. We have a couple of minutes before Sam and Gilly arrive.”

“Alright,” she said, feeling more as if she was walking up to the executioner’s block than entering his flat. “What is it?”

“What’s what?” he deflected.

“The thing that is tearing you up from the inside.”

Jon gave a short chuckle. “How do you know?”

She shrugged, not really knowing the answer. As an actress, she had dealt with quite a few inexperienced actors and actresses, so telling a lie was easier for her than most, a fact that aggravated both Arya and her co-stars.

Through a quick glance around, she noticed how much cleaner his flat looked from the last time she had been there. He had really put in an effort.

Jon sighed, bringing her attention back to him. “Well…well, I really wanted to talk about the dreaded…relationship status.”

That answer came completely out of the blue. “What?”

He had gone so red she wouldn’t be surprised if even his hair took on the hue. “I mean, I know we’ve only been on one date and it’s very early, but I thought since we’ve spent all that time together on the métro, and we’ve kissed and such, we could have the conversation about it now rather than putting it off for later.”

“Okay…” she answered warily, unprepared for the direction his speech had taken.

“And, well, I’ve thought about it and believe me, I’ve wracked my brain over this, is that a sentence, I looked it up on English phrases, God, I had a whole speech memorized, but now I told you that and it’s embarrassing, I’m making it worse aren’t I, well here goes: would you maybe want to be my girlfriend? I mean it would be an honor to call you my girlfriend, I mean, please?”

Blinking, Sansa quickly tried to dissect the simple quantity on words flooding from his mouth. When she got to the end of it, she simply couldn’t keep the smile off of her face.

“Yes,” she answered, “yes, I would be honored to be your girlfriend, or call you boyfriend or whatever.”

The smile that had started spreading when she had smiled spread across his face and it seemed like the sun was coming out.

“Really?”

“Yes!” She laughed even as he leaned forward and pressed their mouths together in a way that made up for the eagerness that had their noses bumping together by the sheer gentleness of what followed.

She smiled into his mouth and he sighed deeply, making her laugh, but neither was willing to break the contact. Well, at least until the doorbell buzzed.

Jon sighed again, this time with annoyance, and pulled away.

“Buzzkill.”

She laughed. “Literally.”

He shot her a grimace that was completely contradictory from his smiling eyes and pressed the opening button for the door.

“They’re a little early, girlfriend,” he informed her over her shoulder, opening his door. She smiled at him, crinkling her nose.

“Hey Snow!” came a voice from the staircase. “Sorry, I know this wasn’t in the agreement, but one of Gilly’s fellow students has come along. He’s apparently having a hard time with integration.” Sam’s head came into view. It was a round head with a sparse beard and a full head of dark hair. His cheeks were reddish from walking up the stairs and his lips were pulled into a warm smile that brightened when he saw Sansa.

“Hey! I’m right here, you know,” came a voice that froze Sansa’s blood.

Before she could react in any way, the blonde head of Tommen Baratheon came up the stairs, stopping at the sight of her.

“Sansa? Sansa Stark? What’re you doing here?”

Jon frowned, looking between Sansa and Tommen while her heart beat so fast she thought it was going to fly out of her chest. “You know each other?”

“Yes, we go to the same University. But of course, I’d heard of her before. After all, everyone was watching Game of Thrones even before they announced one of the actresses was arriving as a belated exchange student!”

“One of the…” Sam repeated. Jon had gone dangerously still.

Carefully, Sansa turned toward him. There were so many emotions in his eyes as he looked at her, really looked at her. Then his eyes flashed to her breasts for just a second and she knew that he was sure now.

“Sansa…Stark?” he mumbled. His eyes were clouded, one emotion overshadowing all the others: hurt. From there, everything seemed to strike him like a shock wave.

“Sansa…” he chocked, leaning against his doorframe. “You don’t like GoT…you…no…I…I told you about my mother, I asked you…why didn’t you…”

There was nothing Sansa could do. It seemed like she had frozen, staring at Jon in horror as she saw one tear slip out. He wiped it away with a hand motion so jerky she wondered if he realized he was doing.

“You’re an actress?” he asked. Her frozen state allowed her one nod. “But…” he added, “but I trusted you…I love you…”

Somehow those three words undid her. Hurrying past Tommen, Sam and a young lady who had joined them on the steps who knows when, she ran faster than she ever had before.

For the second time, she fled Jon’s building.

Only this time it was worse. Much, much worse.

**Author's Note:**

> For writers, feedback is incredibly important. Without which, writing becomes a harder task to master.  
> Or: if you don't review, I'll take my long-ass time uploading.  
> I don't own anything.


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